“Daddy, what do you do all day in the wood?”

“I make beautiful things.”

“Show me some.”

Antony showed her a page of his beautiful manuscript.

“Why, those are only words, silly Daddy!”

“But words, little Wonder, are the most beautiful things in the world.  Listen—­” and he took the child on his knee.  “Listen:—­

  In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
  A stately pleasure-dome decree: 
  Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
  Through caverns measureless to man
      Down to a sunless sea.

The child had inherited a love of beautiful sound, and, though she understood nothing of the meaning, the music charmed her, and she nestled close to her father, with wide eyes.

“Say some more, Daddy.”

The sobbing cadences of the greatest of Irish songs came to Antony’s mind, and he crooned a verse or two at random: 

  All day long, in unrest,
  To and fro, do I move. 
  The very soul within my breast
  Is wasted for you, love! 
  The heart in my bosom faints
  To think of you, my queen,
  My life of life, my saint of saints,
      My dark Rosaleen! 
      My own Rosaleen! 
  To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
  My life, my love, my saint of saints,
      My dark Rosaleen!....

  Over dews, over sands,
  Will I fly for your weal: 
  Your holy delicate white hands
  Shall girdle me with steel. 
  At home in your emerald bowers,
  From morning’s dawn till e’en,

  You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
      My dark Rosaleen! 
      My fond Rosaleen! 
  You’ll think of me thro’ daylight hours,
  My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
      My dark Rosaleen!

  I could scale the blue air,
  I could plough the high hills,
  Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer
      To heal your many ills! 
  And one beamy smile from you
  Would float like light between
  My toils and me, my own, my true,
      My dark Rosaleen! 
      My fond Rosaleen! 
  Would give me life and soul anew,
  A second life, a soul anew,
      My dark Rosaleen!

Wonder, child-like, wearied with the length of the verses, and suddenly the white face of Silencieux caught her eye.

“Who is that lady, Daddy?”

“That is Silencieux.”

“What a pretty name!  Is she a kind lady, Daddy?”

“Sometimes.”

“She is very beautiful.  She is like little mother.  But her face is so white.  She makes me frightened.  Hold me, Daddy—­” and she crouched in his arms.

“You mustn’t be frightened of her, Wonder.  She loves little girls.  See how she is smiling at you.  She wants to be friends with you.  She wants you to kiss her, little Wonder.”

“Oh, no! no!” almost screamed the little girl.

But suddenly a cruel whim to insist came over the father, and, half-coaxingly and half-forcibly, he held her up to the image, stroking its white cheek to reassure her.